


Quest 10: Children of Mah

by FishiesGoneFiction



Series: Of Gods and Men [10]
Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24881878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FishiesGoneFiction/pseuds/FishiesGoneFiction
Summary: The Mahjarrat are dying, and they want answers as to why. To get them, they must journey back to Freneskae at the behest of Zaros, who promises them freedom from their Rituals once and for all. When Zamorak gets wind of his intentions, it leads to the two deities meeting for the first time since the great betrayal…
Series: Of Gods and Men [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1340662
Kudos: 10





	1. Long Way Home

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my full series 'Of Gods and Men', and on my page can be read in full (or as far as I've posted). I'm also posting it in smaller chunks as each 'quest' can sort of be standalone, but read as part of a wider story as well.

Jahaan had been informed of Ozan’s fate. He took it as well as expected.

Over the next few days, Ariane, Mary Rancour and Idria visited Jahaan in his hospital bed, but neither party welcomed the visits. Conversation was tense and weighted, with hollow pleasantries and distracted glances. After all they had been through, conversing just didn’t seem possible, let alone appropriate. Ozan’s absence choked the air around them, invading their minds. How could they talk about anything else? How could they talk about him?

They couldn’t. That’s why, before long, Mary Rancour made excuses to go back to Burthorpe, and Idria said she had business to attend to in the Guardian of Armadyl military order. Ariane stayed for a while longer. Usually the two just sat in silent, solemn contemplation. Jahaan slept through a lot of the visits, even when he wasn’t tired. He couldn’t deal with anyone, let alone her.

Soon, she too made her excuses and left for the Wizards’ Tower, saying she ought to go back and look after Coal.

Then, Jahaan was alone. It was a familiar state for him. He liked solitude, unless in the company of those he trusted. That list was growing thinner and thinner with each passing day. The only true friend he ever had was Ozan, though. Now he was gone too.

Jahaan felt angry. He felt rage, bitter, burning rage… but he was tired. Gods, he was tired. Soon, the rage became hollow. He felt empty, breathing just enough to keep living, the shallow air rattling around his insides.

That’s why he slept so much. At least in his dreams, he didn’t feel so empty.

Gaw’kara’s treatment consisted predominantly of bedrest and pain remedies. Every time he caught Jahaan attempting to walk without aid, even if it was just to stretch his legs and take in the view from the nest, he barked at him to go back to bed. Such injuries required time and relaxation, he would always repeat. Gaw’kara didn’t even allow Armadyl to see Jahaan until a good week into his recuperation.

By the time Armadyl was finally allowed to visit the World Guardian, Jahaan was growing very restless. He could walk, but not without the use of a cane, and he only had one good arm to hold that with. The pain ranged from mild and underlying, all the way up to agony if he twisted in the wrong way. Thus, pain relievers were always on hand. Still, Jahaan was looking forward to leaving the nest. He was grateful for all Gaw’kara and the Armadyleans had done for him, but he needed to leave. He needed to collect his armour from Wahisietel and rest up somewhere else, somewhere private. Not that he had much in the way of company, but still. He’d rather be recuperating on his own terms.

Jahaan was propped up in his bed when Armadyl greeted him with a warm smile. “Salutations, World Guardian. How are you feeling today?”

“Fine, thanks,” Jahaan replied, his stock reply for the question he’d been asked dozens of times by now.

“I apologise for not visiting sooner - Gaw’kara forbade it, and I daren’t cross that bird,” Armadyl chuckled, a wry smile on his beaked face. “But he told me what happened, and of your condition. You’re going to live, and make a full recovery, but only if you don’t do anything reckless.”

“Reckless is all I have,” Jahaan attempted a smile; that, and the joke, were weak. “Thanks for letting me rest here, Armadyl. I really appreciate it.”

“But of course. We don’t turn our back on the injured, World Guardian. And in spite of the horrible circumstances, I’m glad we finally got a chance to properly meet. Sliske’s ascendency didn’t exactly allow for pleasantries.”

“And the memory of the ascendency is anything but pleasant,” Jahaan retorted, wincing as the inhalation he took made his ribs ache. But instead of more small talk, Jahaan wanted to cut to the heart of the matter. He feared Armadyl might be in the business of recruiting him - the World Guardian was a powerful ally to have, some might argue - but Jahaan was in no mood to be under any god’s wing, no pun intended. Frankly, he’d had enough of the divine, and wanted nothing more than to leave the confines of the nest and lick his wounds in solitude. “Listen, while I appreciate your hospitality and all, I was hoping that-”

“You could leave?” Armadyl finished with a raised eyebrow. “Jahaan, you are not a prisoner here. You’re free to leave whenever you like. However, Gaw’kara had recommended at least another week of bedrest and observation. Allow that, and I’ll take you anywhere on Gielinor. And as an added incentive to stay, I’m hosting a banquet tomorrow to mark Taw-itsh Makaaw - it’s a holiday we celebrate twice a year. Could you be persuaded to attend?”

At the word ‘banquet’ Jahaan’s stomach started to rumble. Medic-bay food was hardly a feast fit for… well, anyone, let alone kings. It was nutritious, NOT delicious. He ate it out of sheer necessity to stay alive, and even then he wasn’t sure if it was worth it, knowing he’d have to suffer another mouthful of it the next day.

So, Jahaan accepted Armadyl’s invitation, and indeed stayed another week in the nest to appease Gaw’kara. Like Armdayl, Jahaan did not want to cross that bird. He was given an entire lecture upon the correct ways to treat his injuries, what to do and what not to do. The term ‘post-concussion syndrome’ had been bandied about, and Jahaan didn’t actively want to experience it, so he did take the advice to heart.

Once the week was up, Jahaan requested a teleport to Nardah. He was gifted with a cane to assist his walking, something Jahaan deeply wished he didn’t have to use, but begrudgingly did. It took him near five times as long to cross the room without it.

When he landed in the swelteringly familiar heat of the Nardah climate, Jahaan wished he also asked for a waterskin. Nevermind, the journey wasn’t that long. Though with his walking stick, and with every step being an adventure into achiness, it certainly felt like a long time.

Finally, mercifully, he reached the home of Ali the Wise.

It was a sight for the glamoured Mahjarrat to see; the last time Wahisietel had seen Jahaan, he was a lot more sprightly. Now, he was huddled over a cane. His left arm was in a sling, with his wrist bandaged. His nose was crooked, and a gap in his smile showed a missing tooth. Purple and blue splotches covered his cheeks.

Ushering him inside, Wahisietel demanded, “What happened to you?”

From the stony look on his face, Wahisietel had already hazarded a guess.

“I picked a fight and lost,” Jahaan replied, a half-truth at best, but he really didn’t want to get into it. Instead, he limped over to the set of armour neatly tucked into one of the corners of the room. “Thanks for holding onto this for me. I’m sorry I didn’t collect it sooner.”

“I am not so easily placated, Jahaan,” Wahisietel’s tone was stern, yet measured. “Tell me what he did.”

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, the back of Jahaan’s head was gradually starting to hurt. Headaches were commonplace, a side effect of the concussion. But just because they were expected, didn’t make them any less irritating.

Then, something troubling caught Jahaan’s eye. “Wahisietel, your hand…”

The Mahjarrat’s eyes followed Jahaan’s gaze down to his left hand; his glamoured human flesh seemed to be receding, a pale skeletal hand threatening to make its appearance known.

Pulling his sleeve down over the hand, Wahisietel was concerned, but not surprised. “This particular side effect started happening days ago, though I’ve been feeling the effects for weeks. My power… it has been draining at an alarming rate.”   
“But how?” Jahaan queried, his brow furrowing. “Lucien’s sacrifice should sustain the Mahjarrat for another five hundred years, right?”

“So you would think,” Wahisietel’s voice was grave and laced with concern. “If I am not the only one to suffer degrading, then that would mean another Ritual is upon us soon. That could mean…”

Shaking his head, the furrowed brow of Ali’s disguise relaxed somewhat; he gave a thin, sorrowful smile. “My apologies, I did not mean to burden you with this.”

Relaxing down into his armchair, Wahisietel motioned for Jahaan to take a seat opposite him. “Now that’s settled, it’s your turn to explain the state you are in.”

Slowly, Jahaan descended into the chair. It was a painful effort. “It’s a long story.”

“I have time. You can start by telling me why I was nearly crushed in my own home by a randomly materialising set of armour.”

Accepting that the Mahjarrat wasn’t going to budge on this, and rather enjoying taking the weight off his feet, Jahaan gave a heavily trimmed down version of events. No unnecessary information, and nothing about Ozan. He couldn’t bear to bring up the man’s name.

For the most part, Wahisietel sat there quietly, stewing. At least he spared Jahaan an ‘I told you so’, something the World Guardian was expecting more than his headaches. After Jahaan repeated the story, Wahisietel spent what felt like an eternity toying with his beard in silent contemplation. Jahaan was in no rush to break that silence.

Eventually, the Mahjarrat spoke. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

Jahaan was caught slightly off-guard. Not the line of questioning he was anticipating. “I… I’m heading on to Menaphos. I’ll find somewhere there.”

Nodding gently, Wahisietel continued, “I’ll help you carry your armour to the bank. I doubt you can wear it in your condition, yes?”

Jahaan blinked. “R-Right… thank you.”

And that seemed to be his cue to leave. The two didn’t say a word to one another on the way to the bank, and Wahisietel left Jahaan with a very conservative, very blunt ‘farewell’ as he made his way back home. Jahaan was left utterly baffled at the Mahjarrat’s response, regaining just enough stability in his mind to take out a waterskin and some coins before heading over to the flying carpet operator, replaying the conversation in his head as he did so.

What he didn’t realise was that, upon returning home, Wahisietel smashed his desk in half with his bare hands.

Jahaan didn’t want to go back to Menaphos, but in his heart of hearts, he knew he had to.

He was going to go back to The Golden City, to walk through the imposing gates that towered into the clouds and beyond.

He was going to walk through the Merchant’s District, marvelling at the opulence of the wares for sale as he did so. He’d gaze upon the beautiful silk robes of the residents, walk across the perfectly paved streets, trying not to feel like the outsider he had become.

He was going to look up at the Golden Palace in the Imperial District, where the rich and affluent lounged in excessive luxury, either oblivious to the corruption and poverty surrounding them, or unphased by it.

He was going to walk across the city’s main plaza where the statues of the four lesser deities of the Pantheon stood proud.

If he could face it, he would return to the Port District. He might even see what became of his old house.

But for now, it seemed as if Jahaan would end up in the Worker’s District, since that's what his budget would allow. He was going to return to the dregs of the city he had spent a fair portion of his youth in, when the alcohol guided him that way. Waking up to the sound of pickaxes against rock was something he’d get used to. That is, until his ribs healed enough for him to join the workers, earn a pitiful living and pay off the debt he’d accrue renting a place to stay. It was the only part of the city with an altar, for the Pharaoh hated religion, seeing it as a threat to his authority. He went so far as imprisoning religious leaders. The ramshackle altar at the shoreline was a beacon of hope for those trapped in the monotony of a pauper’s life.

And just as the altar was a beacon of hope to the residents of the district, Menaphos was as close to salvation for Jahaan as he could get. This was because Jahaan’s life in Menaphos was a life before Ozan. For twenty-five years Jahaan had remained in Menaphos, not meeting his best friend until he left the Golden City. Therefore, he’d made no memories with the man in Menaphos. For Jahaan, Menaphos was the last place where he felt normal. Once he left the comfort of the city walls, everything changed. But normality, stability and peace… Jahaan’s injury and grief-addled mind concluded that Menaphos was the only place to find such things.

That’s why he had to go back to Menaphos.

So, bracing himself and paying the fare, Jahaan began the magic carpet ride across the desert. When he left the Golden City, the magic carpet transport system hadn’t been introduced. He had to walk from settlement to settlement, and some stretches of the overwhelming heat almost killed him. Directions to towns were hard to follow - maps didn’t account for the endless stretches of blank, sandy nothingness. You couldn’t catch your bearings in such a place. So, despite hating the nausea-inducing carpet ride, he thanked the gods for its existence.

The large golden gates slowly emerged into view over the horizon after what felt like half an eternity on the flying fabric. Once the carpet was parked, Jahaan rolled off and sunk into the sand below. He ended up having to sit down in the sand for a good fifteen minutes before the world stopped spinning enough for him to continue his journey. It also took him a solid five more minutes to stand up again, his pride making him refuse the assistance of the carpet operator at the Menaphos station. Jahaan could have sworn the man’s pet monkey was snickering at him. Why were there so many monkeys in the desert anyhow? Jahaan had passed a whole colony on his journey. He thought them a mirage at first, but this one here disproved that theory.

Brushing those thoughts to one side, as well as brushing off the sand that coated the lower part of his body, Jahaan limped over to the imposing gates of Menaphos. They were taller than he remembered, somehow. They felt taller, at least. Possibly because, with his bruised face, bandaged ribs and cane, Jahaan felt incredibly small.

After signalling to the guards, the gates were eased open, and the spectacle of Menaphos unravelled in front of him.


	2. Something is Wrong

It seemed that Wahisietel was the first one to arrive. Staring across at the haunting, snow-covered Ritual Marker brought back less than pleasant memories for him. He wondered how an inanimate object could be so ominous, could strike so much fear right into his core, fear all of his kin shared but would never confess to.

He’d been left with no choice, and frankly, he was surprised his kin hadn’t beaten him to it, hadn’t arrived here and summoned the rest of their kind days ago. Perhaps everyone was just as reluctant to accept what was happening to them as Wahisietel was.

Edging closer to the Ritual Marker, Wahisietel exhaled deeply, tentatively making his way across the plateau. The Marker wouldn’t bite, or strike out lightning - at least, that’s what he thought - yet he couldn’t help feel humbled by its terrifying aura. It was the Marker that meant death to the unfortunate members of his race, after all.

Wahisietel also knew that, as soon as he touched the Marker, his fellow Mahjarrat would  _ know _ . In the few instances they have needed to gather outside of a Ritual, this was how they would alert one another. If they’d been reduced to the same skeletal fate Wahisietel had, no doubt a lot of them would arrive in search of a sacrifice. All would search for knowledge, at least, wanting to know why the last Ritual had not sustained them.

_ Would Sliske join them? _ Wahisietel found himself wondering. He wanted answers from his half-brother, wanted to know why he was so determined to dig a shallow grave for himself. But if he came to the Ritual, and if indeed a sacrifice was chosen, Wahisietel knew that the unilateral decision would almost certainly be to sacrifice Sliske. He’d burnt every bridge he’d ever made; Wahisietel didn’t even know if Azzanadra would side with him any longer. By Zaros, Wahisietel didn’t even know if he could stand with his half-brother after everything he had done.

Sliske was a powerful Mahjarrat. Even without Azzanadra’s protection of him, he was usually safe from the Marker. Thanks to the joint protection of Sliske and Azzanadra, Wahisietel too had been safe from the Marker for all these centuries. He was never as strong as his half-brother, never adept in shadow magicks to a near mastery level like Sliske was. But now, if Azzanadra turned against Sliske, and if indeed every other Mahjarrat ganged up against him, Sliske wouldn’t stand a chance. Yes, he had the Stone of Jas and the Staff of Armadyl, but so did Lucien. Lucien even had support from the other Zamorakian Mahjarrat. What few Zarosians were left wouldn’t side with Sliske, Wahisietel bitterly concluded. His half-brother would be overpowered, and he would be gone.

_ If _ he came to the Ritual at all. Perhaps the Stone of Jas has slowed his withering? It didn’t do so for Lucien, but that was after five hundred years of degrading. This was a peculiar scenario, one that perhaps Sliske would be immune from.

Wahisietel didn’t know. He hated not knowing. He hated not knowing what Sliske’s endgame was in all this, why he had to turn his back on Zaros, Azzanadra and himself. Why did he nearly slaughter the World Guardian he seemed so very fond of?

If Sliske came to the Ritual Site, Wahisietel would get answers. But then he’d also lose the only family he had left.

Exhaling a frosty breath, Wahisietel knew he was only delaying the inevitable. Placing his hand upon the Marker’s surface, a chill ran through his body.

Now, he waited.

But not for long.

Khazard and Enakhra teleported in first, a wry grin slashed across the former’s skeletal face as soon as he locked eyes with Wahisietel. “Ah, I see the sacrifice is already here. Nice of you to show up early, Wahisietel.”

“This is going to be the most unanimous vote since we said goodbye to dear Lamistard,” Enakhra remarked, sniffing a laugh that rattled the bones in her jaw. “Unless Sliske turns up soon, that is. You might last another few years if that’s the case.”

Almost immediately afterwards, Akthanakos joined the fray, standing beside Wahisietel as the divide between the Mahjarrat factions formed at either side of the Marker. “I see it did not take long for you to descend into petty insults.”

“I would keep your voice down if I were you, Akthanakos,” Hazeel was next to arrive. “You are so feeble you have completely reverted to your skeletal form already.”

Gulping, Akthanakos looked down at himself in horror. “I… I have? Surely not so soon…”

“Something is affecting all of us,” Azzanadra graced the circle with his presence. Of all of them, he had degraded the least, though the skin was thin and taught around his features. “We can’t descend into quarrels before we uncover what that is.”

“For once, I agree with you, Azzanadra,” Bilrach arrived on the plateau, the Zarosian Mahjarrat taken aback by his presence.

Akthanakos voiced those feelings, “I thought you dead, Bilrach!”

A smile on Bilrach’s face stretched the sparse layers of skin around his jaw, a haunting picture of decay. “Not so easily."

“I feel as if I haven’t seen you in a milenia, Bilrach,” Azzanadra’s tone was not one of someone glad to be reacquainted with an old friend. “It is odd to see the lapdog without his master.”

To his credit, Bilrach’s tone had the same edge of subtle disdain, but he held back from snapping at the petty insult. “Last I saw you, we’d made a prison out of your pyramid, hmm. Hibernate, did we? I had hoped you’d expired in your tomb.”

“You traitors took many years from me, but you did not take my life,” Azzanadra replied through gritted teeth. “But what of you, Bilrach. I haven’t seen you since Lamistard was sacrificed. Why didn’t you attend the last Ritual?”

“I didn’t need to attend,” Bilrach’s lips danced around a dark smile. “Tell me… you felt the power that rippled across the world’s surface, yes?”

Eyes wide for a fraction of a second, Azzanadra inhaled sharply. “You… sacrificed someone. How? Whom?”

“It’s not important,” Wahisietel interjected. While he too was curious at Bilrach’s tale, they had more pressing matters at hand. “What’s important is that we find out what’s happening to us, why Lucien’s sacrifice didn’t sustain us. Now, any suggestions?”

It was like throwing meat to starving wolves.

The bickering continued for far too long, featuring a squabble between Akthanakos and Khazard that nearly came to blows before Hazeel calmed them down.

Out of all the Zamorakians, Wahisietel found Hazeel the most tolerable. The former Mahserrat always had a head on his shoulders.

“Perhaps it was because the Mahjarrat Ritual was interfered with by outsiders?” Hazeel suggested. “The dragonkin struck the killing blow after all, not a Mahjarrat.”

“That shouldn’t make a difference - he was on the Marker,” Akthanakos replied.

“But every sacrifice has always been at the hands of fellow Mahjarrat,” Hazeel maintained. “Maybe the dragonkin absorbed the power, or it went back into the Stone, or-”

“Now you’re just guessing. We have no time for silly theories.”

“Stop! Please!” Wahisietel implored, feeling the coarseness of his skinless fingers fubbing into his temple, “Let us not try to hide the fact that this is no normal Ritual. Clearly something strange is happening to us.”

“Why should we listen to anything you say?” Enakhra spat, heatedly. “We know it was you Zarosian scum who killed Zemouregal! Murdering your kin outside of a Ritual… how dare you?!”

“That’s why Wahisietel should be the next sacrifice!” Khazard declared. “Vengeance for Zemouregal!”

“Enough, Khazard,” Azzanadra stepped in, his voice measured. “Our power is draining at an alarming rate. We are not due another Ritual for hundreds of years. We need to understand what is happening to us.”

“Hah! You fear for your own life as your numbers dwindle, Zar-”

This time, it was Hazeel’s turn to interject. “Quiet, Khazard. The time for bravado has passed. How long would another Ritual sustain us? Months? Weeks? If our power continues to drain at this rate we will ALL be dead within the year.”

Azzanadra nodded. “Agreed. It is imperative that we push for a solution.”

“Perhaps it is time we outgrow these primitive Rituals,” Wahisietel suggested, the hope and despair in his voice blending together seamlessly. “There must be another way!”

“Preposterous!” Enakhra spat. “There is no other way!”

Akthanakos pointed out, “Clearly Sliske thinks there is. He hasn’t even bothered to turn up.”

“Probably because he knows of the target on his back,” Khazard sniffed a dark laugh. “Him being the sacrifice? Now THAT would be unanimous.”

The responses that followed indicated that all agreed with Khazard, except for Wahisietel, who clenched his fist and bit his tongue. Sliske was smart enough to know what battles to pick. Perhaps the Stone was holding him together after all and he didn’t need to attend? Perhaps he’d found another alternative, like Bilrach? Perhaps he was scared of being sacrificed, so had decided to take his chances at not getting rejuivated?

Looking up at Azzanadra, Wahisietel noted that the Mahjarrat was avoiding his glance, his eyes turned downwards.

Wahisietel despondently realised that his suspicions were confirmed, his heart weighing him down as he tore his gaze from Azzanadra.

Swallowing hard, Azzanadra eventually spoke, “If there is an alternative then I am not aware of it. We need to find out what is draining our power. A traditional Ritual is our last resort.”

Suddenly, the air darkened slightly, a low rumble stirring around the Ritual Site.

It was then that Zaros appeared before them.

Instantly, the surprised Azzandra bowed low. Had it not been for the precarious company he was keeping, he would have dropped to his knees. “My lord. You honour us by gracing us with your presence.”

Wahisietel and Akthanakos bowed too, having not seen Zaros since his return to Gielinor. They knew of Zaros’ movements from Azzanadra, but had not yet been summoned to confer with Zaros. Such distance grated at the two Zarosian Mahjarrat, Wahisietel especially, who hated being kept out of the loop.

It didn’t show in Wahisietel’s voice though; raising his head, he said, “My lord, I am heartened to see you return. It has been too long.”

The Zamorakian Mahjarrat, on the other hand, weren’t much pleased with the reunion.

Gulping, Khazard took a tentative step back, slightly behind Hazeel. His eyes were locked on Zaros’ form as he mumbled, “Please Zamorak… save us…”

“Be still,” Zaros commanded, the gravitas of his voice knowing no bounds. “You need not fear me. I have come to earn back the trust you once placed in me.”

Azzanadra, naturally, was the first to reply, “You have always had my trust, my lord, and the trust of the loyalists that stand beside me.”

“Your loyalty has never been called into question, Azzanadra. But there are those here that conspired toward my downfall.”

Instead of allowing himself to be scared, Hazeel took a bold step forward, challenging the deity. “Zamorak will know you are here. Do you wish to re-enact that downfall?”

If Zaros had conventional eyes, he would no doubt roll them at such an attempt. “Such vitriol, Hazeel. Zamorak does not concern me. I reiterate: I wish you no harm.”

Khazard challenged, “Then why have you come here?”

Looking at each of the gathered Mahjarrat in turn, Zaros declared, “I know what is happening to you all. I know why you are gathered here.”

Azzanadra was relieved by this, hopeful once more. “I pray you bring good news, my lord. We fear for the future of our race.”

“Good news?” Enakhra laughed sharply and with incredulation. “He is probably the cause of our troubles!”

“Enakhra, I will tell you only once - do not insult me,” Zaros warned, clear enough for the female Mahjarrat to step back. “Unfortunately, you are right to fear for your race. Your power is being drained so rapidly that you will all likely wither and die without a solution.”

Akthanakos shook his head in despair. “This cannot be…”

“Zaros, if you truly have nothing to do with this, then why have you come here?” Hazeel demanded, though he didn’t have the accusational tone of his Zamorakian brethren. “To witness our demise?”

“As I said, Hazeel, I wish to earn back your trust. Hope is not lost. I wish to make good on a promise I made to all of you long ago. Before the god wars... before the empire. If you accept, I offer you salvation. I offer you freedom from your Rituals.”

“You did not keep that promise last time you made it,” Enakhra pointed out, sneering. “Your empire was built on empty promises.”

“Know your place, you ungrateful whelp,” Azzanadra snapped, rounding on Enakhra.

“Mmm, yes, a good point has been made,” Bilrach mused. “What makes you think we should believe you this time?”

Zaros simply replied, “I have not come here to beg. I once promised you something I did not know how to give. I return to you now with knowledge I did not possess before. I wish to bestow upon you a gift that will make amends for my past missteps. All you need to do is return to Freneskae, the origins of your species. I implore each and every one of you, accept my offering.”

Lowering his head, Wahisietel said, “Of course, Zaros. We would follow you to the ends of the cosmos.”

Naturally, Khazard audaciously cut in, “Pah! Speak for yourself, you-”

“Enough,” Zaros’ firm tone was rock-solid, hiding the exasperation that even the most powerful of deities could feel. “You have heard what I came here to say. I will await you at the Ritual of Rejuvenation site on Freneskae. Go through the World Gate and meet me there, or conduct your Rituals until the last of you breathes your final sigh of regret.”

With those chilling words, Zaros teleported away.

After the air had stilled, Azzanadra announced, “Well, my opinion should be clear. We must go to Freneskae.”

Enakhra rolled her eyes. “Surprise, surprise. Zaros clicks his fingers and Azzanadra comes running.”

“Stop sulking, Enakhra. I see no other option but to hear Zaros out.” Hazeel contributed, rubbing his hairless chin in frustrated contemplation.

Clicking her tongue, Enakhra crossed her arms over her chest. “Before we make any decisions, I would like us to recall the last time Zaros made us the very same promise. We did the dirty work building his empire on the false pretence that he would save us from extinction. He turned his back on us time and time again, until we entered his throne room beside Zamorak and made that arrogance his downfall.”

“And Zaros still had the good grace not to strike you down the moment he saw you!” Azzanadra spat back. “You heard what Zaros said. He wishes to save us.”

“He does not! It is just as before… an empty promise with no intention of delivering upon it.”

“Enough!” Wahisietel interrupted, a headache forming thanks to the bickering from both parties. “The way I see it, we have no choice but to hear Zaros out. Regardless of your allegiance to our lord, he seems to have an understanding as to why our power is draining as it is. I am going to the World Gate and crossing through to Freneskae. I hope to see you all there, lest I never see you again.”

There was a thick, contemplative silence that followed Wahisitel’s departure. Hazeel was the first to break it. “Perhaps Wahisietel is right. Our impending doom is not something we can ignore.”

“So we should just play right into Zaros' hands?” Khazard continued to protest, but his resolve had lessened. Perhaps the weightlessness of his receding flesh had finally gotten to him.

Even Enakhra was starting to come around, begrudgingly. “Unfortunately, it would seem we have no other choice. Zamorak will watch over us on our journey, of that I am sure.”

“At least some of you are able to see reason,” Azzanadra remarked with a sniff of a chuckle. “There may yet be hope for us.”

“Hope for these Zamorakians? Unlikely,” Akthanakos maintained with a haughty raise of his chin. “The only reason I will set foot on Freneskae is because I cannot perform a Ritual on my own.”

Hazeel replied, “We may yet get a sacrifice, Akthanakos. But unless we go to Freneskae, I fear our fate is sealed.”


	3. Shattered Worlds

Freneskae. The whole world would roll away before you, made all the more beautiful by its utter hostility. Caves big enough to fit a cathedral, rivers of glowing orange snaking along the floor like the arteries of some giant protean god… it was a crudely carved nightmare of a realm.

Wahisietel had very few fond memories of this world. He wasn’t a strong voice back on Freneskae, not like Azzanadra or Zamorak, but he was fiercely in favour of leaving for Gielinor when the opportunity arose. Anything to leave the unforgiving and aggressive climate. There was no sanctuary - muspah raids were a constant threat, much like the storms and lava flows that often decimated their camps. Tribal politics could sometimes lead to more devastating results than the muspah; Wahisietel was never high on the totem pole, therefore he knew to keep his voice down and his head low, lest he be thrown to the Marker over some petty grievance.

Twice he was put forward for sacrifice. Both before Sliske was born, once by his own mother who wanted to rid herself of her underdeveloped offspring. Wahisietel had been far slower in learning magic as a child and was mute for many years. He had to resort to bludgeoning his rival half to death with a sharp rock before the dying Mahjarrat was dragged away to the Marker to be sacrificed.

At least when Sliske was born, he had someone to look out for, and someone to look out for him. Their shared mother never liked Sliske either, so the half-brothers had common ground.

Sliske learned magic fast, and became an adept shadow-walker at a very early age. He dealt with his first Ritual opponent with prowess and ease.

Wahisietel was envious, but he refused to let it get to him. After all, once Sliske was around, Wahisietel was never offered for sacrifice anymore. Sliske’s strength and usefulness to the tribe helped him rise up the ranks quickly, and his connection to Azzanadra certainly garnered him significant protection. It wasn’t until Gielinor that Wahisietel and Azzanadra were even on a first-name basis.

If it wasn’t for Sliske, Wahisietel doubted he would have even made it to Gielinor.

Wahisietel knew exactly where the World Gate had sent them - The Falls of Mah. It was acknowledged as the most dangerous part of the journey to the Ritual of Rejuvenation Site, the last obstacle at the end of their pilgrimage. Once at the Ritual Site, they could banish the muspah hoards, just like Mah had taught his elders. Wahisietel hadn’t been there when Mah appeared before the Mahjarrat to teach them their Rituals. Out of the hundreds that had been present, only two were still alive - Zamorak and Bilrach.

The blazing river was the most hazardous of all the challenges to overcome. It was a time of heightened seismic activity, so the rivers of lava bubbled and burped forth huge pillars of flame. Wahisietel had seen too many of his kin succumb to its fiery depths, and he was not looking forward to traversing it again.

Still, it was necessary, since teleportation was out of the question. Teleportation was never a viable option on Freneskae. Due to the seismic activity of the world and the constantly shifting ground, you could never be certain where you were going to land. What you once remembered as solid ground could have long since been turned into molten lava, dropping you straight into your smouldering demise. Even now, with their better understanding of teleportation magic, the Mahjarrat knew they would be soaring into the unknown if they tried to teleport themselves to the Ritual Site.

The rest of his kin had emerged through the World Gate by now, taking in the landscape of the life they had left behind. Except Khazard. Since he was born on Gielinor during the God Wars, he had never seen Freneskae before, and looked more than a little terrified.

Bilrach set his jaw, his tongue exploring the empty cavern of his hollow mouth. “Curious. The pull on our energy here seems even stronger than before.”

Akthanakos, taking in his companion, pointedly remarked, “Looks like I am not the only one to revert. Even you have assumed your skeletal form, Bilrach.”

“Assumed, yes. Reverted, no,” Bilrach corrected. “I have decreased my energy signature to be as low as possible, thus extending the little time I have left, hmm.”

If skeletons could blush, Akthanakos would have turned cherry. “Oh, well yes, of course. Following my example, obviously.”

Azzanadra was silent as he took in Freneskae. He may have described the world as beautiful, but even he wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of returning to their birthplace.

“Come,” he ordered, gazing out at the falls before them. “The Ritual Site is not far from here, but we must tread carefully.”

“Can’t we just teleport there?” Khazard asked, naively.

“Not unless you want to boil,” Akthanakos rolled his eyes, then thought better of it. “No, wait, that’s a brilliant idea, Khazard. You lead the way.”

Khazard opened his mouth to reply, but Hazeel cut in, “Stay close, Khazard. Tread exactly where I tread.”

When Mah appeared to the Mahjarrat at The Beginning, she taught them many things. The two that stuck with them the most were the two Rituals - the Ritual of Rejuvenation and the Ritual of Enervation.

Mah told the various Dreams of Mah tribes - of which the Mahjarrat were a part of - that when the terrible muspah hoards rose from the ground and swarmed them, they had to journey to the Marker and sacrifice one of their own in the Ritual of Rejuvenation to vanish the foul beasts. She also told them that when ground trembled fearsomely, they were to divide into pairs and join their energies together to soothe the tremors in the earth. In doing so, they would also bring new life into the world. After each Ritual, the Mahjarrat enjoyed a serene peace that could last for years. Well, as much peace as Freneskae would allow. The ground would settle, and the muspah would cease to exist, but lightning strikes, rockfalls, volcanic eruptions, attacks from other tribes… the Mahjarrat were never out of danger. But the absence of two major threats thanks to the Rituals was a godsend, literally. Hence, they diligently performed the Rituals whenever necessary, and sometimes even when they weren’t, using them as a political power tool.

The Rituals were pillars of Mahjarrat culture, but they were a burden drawing them to the brink of extinction. But today, if Zaros was to be believed, they would undertake their final one.

It was a promise Zaros made centuries ago. When Icthlarin took Sliske’s wights from him, he made an enemy that day. An enemy that soon led the Mahjarrat into Zaros’ service.

Wahisietel remembered that day like it was yesterday, when the majority of his tribe first came to Zaros. It took a lot of assurances from Sliske that the deity’s proposal was above board, and Zamorak had helped bring the entire tribe around. Wahisietel wanted it to be real. He wanted a leader worth following. Icthlarin was not that leader.

Zaros was... he was everything and more. He was salvation incarnate. He and his men didn’t look at the Mahjarrat with fear or disgust. Zaros promised them power and authority, and a respectable place in the society he was building. But the most interesting thing was the way he observed the Ritual that took place.

A fierce debate broke out amongst the Mahjarrat in regards to whether or not a Ritual of Rejuvenation - which had ceased during the war - should be performed in order to continue their tradition, although many thought it would be meaningless without the Marker or a volcano. After Azzanadra explained to Zaros what the Ritual of Rejuvenation was, he offered to create a replacement Ritual marker, and expressed a desire to watch the Ritual occur. With a marker, the Mahjarrat agreed to partake in the Ritual. After it was finished, Zaros explained that in the absence of Mah - whose existence he did not question - the energy intended to appease her was instead distributed amongst the present Mahjarrat. He claimed that on Gielinor, unless the Ritual of Rejuvenation was regularly performed, they would all gradually whither and die. But he also told the Mahjarrat that they needed to use them more sparingly. Every five hundred years, it was agreed upon.

Then he said that, in time, he could free the Mahjarrat from their Rituals entirely.

That was what won Wahisietel over.

It had taken centuries, but the end was in sight. If Zaros came through, the Mahjarrat would finally be free.

The elders always advised to not wander from the lava path, advice the handful of Mahjarrat dutifully followed on their way to the Ritual site. Already they could see the Marker piercing the murky clouds above. The only sparks of brightness on the desolate world were the Ritual Markers. The Marker was a beacon of pure elder energy that shot up into the skies, illuminating the lifeless landscape around it. Nearer towards the ground, rocks and debris orbited its core, trapped in its gravitational pull.

But as they carefully made their way along the precarious route to the Ritual Site, they saw something else invading the skies above them, something else that scratched and clawed its way into the heavens, looming over the Marker.

Wahisietel gasped, gazing up in awe at the looming figure of a sleeping Mah, towering over the present Mahjarrat like an anguished shadow. “It’s… it’s Mother Mah!”

Never in his life had he gazed upon the twisted and tormented face of his creator. Only those that were there at The Beginning had that honour. But she looked so… so different to what the legends described. And yet, he could  _ feel _ their kinship, feel the gravitas of her presence calling out to him. The haunting figure embedded in the rocks above them was unmistakably Mah.

At the Ritual Site, another figure was bathed in Mah’s shadow - Zaros.

“Thank you for joining me here,” Zaros called out to them, his booming voice cutting through the groans and rumbles of Freneskae’s ambience. “I understand you all are skeptical, but it is time I put your worries to rest. I know what is draining you of your power. To solve this crisis, we must conduct one final Ritual.”

Enakhra’s teeth snapped together. “You brought us here for another Ritual? You said there would be no more sacrifices!”

“And I spoke the truth,” Zaros calmly replied.

Bilrach was not convinced, letting it be known by the low grumble of a “Hmm…”

“Then... you mean a Ritual of Enervation?” Hazeel hesitantly met the gaze of Enakhra, who opened her mouth to object, before Zaros cut her off.

“No. I will aid you in a Ritual of Rejuvenation, but we will draw energy directly from Mah.”

Akthanakos gulped. “F-From Mah? Our creator?”

“I have more information that you would benefit from hearing,” Zaros continued. “Mah is the drain on your power that you have all been feeling. It will not stop while she exists. She cares for you. It is my assessment that she dragged herself here to give you the last of her energy.”

Wahisietel clarified, “So your plan is to transfer Mah's power directly to us?”

“Yes, Wahisietel. You would gain more power than you have ever experienced, and with Mah gone there would no longer be a need for your Rituals. You would have her power - enough energy and strength to sustain yourselves indefinitely.”

Enakhra exhaled a deep breath, her narrow eyes closing in contemplative acceptance. “Alright. I may not trust you, but I cannot fault the logic of your plan, Zaros.”

Akthanakos rolled his eyes derisively. “Of course your tune completely changes at the first sniff of power.”

“There will be no more bickering,” Zaros declared, resolutely. “We must take advantage of Mah's peaceful slumber to begin the Ritual. I need all of your full concentration now. It is time. Focus your energy-”

“ZAROS!” The voice stormed across the horizon, reverberating around the Ritual site before its owner had even fully manifested into view.

Zamorak had arrived.

Turning his attention to the newly arrived god, Zaros said, “Zamorak. Right on time, and just as before.”

“That’s as close as you’ll get to a joke, so I’ll take it,” Zamorak strode into the centre of the gathered Mahjarrat, staring down the Empty Lord with prideful venom. “You’ve taken advantage of the Mahjarrat long enough. Not this time, you hollow prick.”

“Your insolence knows no bounds. Even when I offer salvation, you challenge me. Foolish child.”

“Don’t underestimate me,” Zamorak warned. “I beat you once, don’t think I can’t do it again.”

Whether Zaros could smile was something of a mystery, but Zamorak could  _ feel _ the cruel upturn in the diety’s lips. “And yet the fear in your voice betrays your words. There is doubt in your eyes, not fire. You lack the confidence and naivety you wielded the first time you challenged me.”

Perhaps there was doubt in his eyes, fear in his voice, but Zamorak made a show of hiding it. “I’m more powerful than I was back then, and don’t think you can manipulate me with your twisted words. I’m immune to your controlling aura.”

Zaros raised his chin. “Hmm, so you know about my curse.”

“Ha! Curse... bullshit,” Zamorak snarled. “It’s how you accomplished everything. I figured it out thousands of years ago.”

Khazard piped up, “What do you mean, ‘controlling aura’?”

“Anyone who gets too close to Zaros will gradually be compelled to follow him. It’s false devotion. Clearly it affects some more than others,” Zamorak explained, shooting a derisive glare at Azzanadra as he implied, “I believe the effect is stronger the weaker the individual is. But what do you say, Zaros?”

“Yes, I am flawed,” Zaros admitted, coldly. “Doomed never to know whether the loyalty I inspire is genuine unless I withdraw myself as I have done. It is no gift.”

Enakhra snorted a laugh. “Then Azzy and his sidekicks are just lovesick weaklings!”

“Wrong,” Zaros assured before Azzanadra could get his licks in. “Their loyalty has always been unwavering, despite my complete absence from this world.”

“Enough bullshit,” Zamorak snapped. “I know what you are doing, Zaros. Pulling the strings with your empty words and promises.”

Zaros’ voice was still calm and measured. “I know how to free them, Zamorak. I know how to free you.”

“Me? You think I need your help?”

“Your power is draining too, as is mine. We are all of the same composition, a family of sorts. I am in the same peril that all of you are.”

“For fuck’s sake, your plan is even more transparent than before,” Zamorak shook his head with indignation. “You’ve lured them here to drain them of their power. Are you truly so desperate to save yourself that you would sacrifice them all?”

“No, Zamorak. You are wrong. Always so blinded by hatred,” Zaros was growing exasperated now, and increasingly frustrated. Thinking an example might help his cause, for actions speak louder than words, Zaros said, “Here, let me show you how I can use the Ritual Marker to channel Mah's energy into Khazard-”

“DON’T TOUCH MY SON!” Zamorak roared, launching a bolt of dark energy towards Zaros. Instantly, the other deity caught it with a spell of his own, holding back Zamorak’s attack with ease. Zamorak was really having to force himself forwards just to hold Zaros’ attack at bay. The surrounding Mahjarrat daren’t get involved. Even the Zamorakians, who saw their god struggling, knew better than to interfere. Seeing two of Gielinor’s most powerful deities battling it out under the slumbering figure of Mah was terrifying.

Zaros twisted his hand and another smouldering jet of magic blasted towards Zamorak. It struck the Mahjarrat god’s wings, catching them alight and incinerating them within seconds.

“You will pay for your insolence with your life!” Zaros bellowed, watching with cruel satisfaction as Zamorak howled in agony, sinking to his knees as the spell started to overwhelm him. “Even now, it is a shame to end your life. You could have been so much more.”

With one hand on the ground, Zamorak resiliently continued to hold back Zaros’ attack, using all his strength and power to form a crackling energy shield around himself. Nevertheless, Zaros’ onslaught continued.

“I never asked for this burden,” Zamorak growled, panting through the exhaustion. “Everything I did, I did for the Mahjarrat. If I am to die… then the power YOU gave me will become theirs!”

Suddenly, Zamorak broke the shield, allowing Zaros’ full might to strike him. As he did so, he channelled a spell that connected himself to the Ritual Marker, attaching his entire life force, his entire being, to the Marker. When the connection was made, every Mahjarrat became enveloped in a green aura.

Wahisietel could feel his power being restored, he could feel himself being rejuvenated as Zamorak made himself the sacrifice.

It took Zaros a moment to realise what Zamorak was doing, his eyes wide with confusion and indignation. “What? No!”

Instantly, he broke the spell. Zamorak tumbled to the ground, weak and weary. Enakhra and Hazeel dared not move an inch, in horrified awe at the display of power they had just witnessed… but Khazard was not deterred. He rushed to Zamorak’s side, turning him over to see glazed eyes meet his own. The god was coughing and panting, gasping for tight lungfuls of air that struggled to come.

“K-Khazard…” he managed to whisper.

Khazard was still in shock. He thought his father had perished alongside his mother, in the battle of Uzer during the God Wars. Of all people he could claim kinship with...

“L-Lord Zamorak… my father?” he was mumbling, more to himself than Zamorak. Fortunately, Zamorak’s crystal had not been damaged in the battle. Whether any internal damage had been done was another matter, but considering Zamorak was at least trying to stand was a good sign. Khazard helped him to his feet. Zamorak was huddled over, clutching at his stomach, using most of his remaining strength to glower at Zaros. “Why didn’t-  _ ah! _ ... you finish me off?”

Zaros’ cold, measured voice returned, but with an underlying hiss of resentment. “Your self-sacrifice instills devotion in your kin... Somehow, in opposition to everything I try to build - everything I try to give - you stand against me. And it inspires others to do the same. I will not make you a martyr.”

Zamorak waved Khazard away, back towards Hazeel, in case Zaros decided to go for round two. “Then what will you do?”

“You have always had such potential, Zamorak. Even now, you are the embodiment of everything I preach. Such desire to overcome your limitations. I cannot let you go to waste. I am afraid we are far past the point of trust though. There must be precautions this time.”

Zamorak didn’t like where this was heading. “I’m not going to be your pawn. Not again.”

“It is a shame you cannot see the value of joining me. The things we could accomplish together…” Zaros sighed. “I see only one way we can mutually benefit from this predicament. I suggest we invoke Vinculum Juris, an ancient demonic pact that I am sure you are familiar with.”

Zamorak spat out a sharp laugh, but the pain in his chest was sharper. “You really are batshit crazy if you think I’ll let my fate be tied to yours.”

“You have no choice. If you wish to leave this place, I need to know you will not interfere with me again,” Zaros had a way of threatening without actually threatening, since the monotonous tone of his voice rarely changed.

Zamorak, however, knew the deity well enough to know what he was implying. “Argh, spit it out then. What terms would you have bind us?”

“Sliske has the Catalyst,” Zaros began, “He claims he will give it to the victor of his games once the eclipse is upon us. I know you are planning to obtain it. You will continue to do so, but within his final game you will perform one action at my request. You will know which request I intend for you to act upon, because I will refer to you as my Legatus Maximus when I address you. In return, I vow to deliver upon my promise. We will conduct one final Ritual. When it is complete, every one of you will have increased in power and the drain on your energy will be gone.”

Enakhra finally found the courage to call out, “The pact will bind him to his word, Lord Zamorak. He will have to free us!”

“I cannot give him what he wants, Enakhra,” Zamorak affirmed. “There is no telling what he would do with the Stone!”

Hazeel spoke up in a much softer tone, “Zamorak, brother, swallow your pride. We have no other option…”

Zamorak’s resolve was slightly weakened. He gulped. “Hazeel…”

Suddenly, the shadow of Mah began to creak into life, knocking a few stray rocks from their perch.

“Hmm, Mah stirs…” Bilrach commented, so matter-of-factly that one would think he wasn’t afraid of the vengeful elder god above them. “The clock is ticking faster. I see no other path to salvation, my lord.”

Exhaling heavily, Zamorak turned back to Zaros with narrowed eyes. “You know what happens if you break this vow, Zaros. Vinculum Juris is not forgiving.”

“Yes… I will be undone,” Zaros confirmed, bluntly. Vinculum Juris was one of the oldest pacts in the universe, instigated by demons that somehow managed to weave the fabric of fate to do their bidding. It was a simple contract, but deadly to break. You made a promise, you swore by Vinculum Juris, and if you did not hold up your end, the universe would unwrite you from existence. Nobody, not even Zaros, truly knew how or why they worked… but they did. One such contract was how Zaros scored his first army, twelve demonic legions, giving him the power and might to start challenging for territory on Gielinor.

He’d also seen what happened to those who broke their end of the contract, as had Zamorak. With that first hand knowledge, neither would dare go back on their word.

“Then it is no longer a matter of trust,” Zamorak raised his chin. “Keep your word, or cease to exist.”

“We are clear on the consequences. Do you accept my wording?”

“With one last Ritual you will end the need for any more, preventing any further energy drain, which will in turn empower us all. If you deliver on this promise, I must perform one action for you in Sliske's game.”

“And the request I intend for you to act upon will be denoted by...?” Zaros checked.

“You will address me as your Legatus Maximus,” Zamorak confirmed.

“Then it is settled,” Zaros declared. “All those who stand before bare witness. Let us begin.”

Simultaneously, the two deities began reciting the brief contract in Infernal. As they did, bright white energy began spilling out of their mouths, their eyes glowing possessively.  _ “Animus contrahendi. Vinculum Juris!” _

Both then fired a harmless spell at the other. When the spells met, the contract was sealed.

“It is done,” Zaros announced, solemnly. “We are bound.”

“Your turn, Zaros,” Zamorak wasted no time. “Hold up your end of the deal. Now.”

Zaros agreed, “Yes, it is about time. Mah will not sleep soundly for much longer.”

“What must we do, my lord?” Azzanadra eagerly asked, his heart in his throat.

“The Marker is acting as a conduit for Mah to siphon energy through. I will reverse this process,” Zaros explained. “This will allow you all to channel power through the Marker, as you would in a Ritual of Rejuvenation. The difference being that this time the Ritual will draw on Mah's power directly, infusing it into each of you. Permanently.”

Khazard was nervous, his eyes flitting between Zamorak, Zaros, and the slumbering Mah. To Zamorak, he asked, “Lord Zam-... F-Father… can we really trust this to work?”

“He is bound to his word by Vinculum Juris, Khazard,” Zamorak assured. “Either he keeps his promise, or he will be killed. It’s a win-win.”

“Then let us begin,” Zaros stepped forward, raising his hands aloft as he tried to tether himself not only to the Marker, but to Mah and the Mahjarrat simultaneously. Zaros was the conduit for this entire ritual; Mah’s energy would be pulled through the Marker by him, and then into the surrounding Mahjarrat. It wasn’t the standard way the Ritual was performed - it couldn’t be, not for what they were trying to achieve - but Zaros was confident that it would work, providing there were no interruptions.

But as the tenuous connection was made, Mah stirred again, and the skies above them darkened. With a death-rattle and a piercing shriek that could shatter the heavens, the Mahjarrat began to shiver. Not since they left Freneskae had they encountered such foul beasts as the ones that began to slither towards them now.

The muspah had spawned.   



	4. Dying Light

According to legends, muspah were created when Mah had some of her most vile nightmares.

There were two ways to banish them - either pray to Mah that only a few had manifested and try to fight them off, or perform the Ritual of Rejuvenation.

They were thick, clawing creatures in putrid shades of purple, yellow and crimson. Spikes protruded from the rocky shell that covered their back, twisted and contorted in different angles that left no opening, no weakness. Their dagger-like teeth were skewed and positioned haphazardly throughout their cavernous mouths, instant death for anyone unfortunate enough to get a good look. Their forked tongue resembled a crude blade, hurriedly smithed in a sickly green ore, dripping with gurgling venom. Eyes, by the gods their eyes… they glowed so brightly that in the darkest depths of Freneskae, through the thickest fog and the heaviest storms, you could see the end approaching.

“Everyone huddle together!” Wahisietel commanded, backing into the centre of the Ritual circle. “If they attack, we-”

But it was too late. Suddenly, the muspah were among them. They had jumped, sprinted, maybe even  _ teleported _ among the Mahjarrat, who scrambled away from their predators, firing wildly at the foul monsters.

Zaros was shaking. The effort it took to uphold the spell was hard enough without the threat of muspah swarming them. As it stood, he had no way of defending himself. “I cannot lose this connection to the Marker and to Mah. Azzanadra, shield me. If this link is disrupted, there may be no way of reestablishing it.”

“Yes my lord!” Azzanadra hurried to his god’s side, darting his eyes in all directions to retaliate against anything that dared threaten his lord.

Unlike his Mahjarrat brethren, Khazard had never encountered a muspah before. So when he saw the clawed abomination dash over the horizon, looking barge straight into him, he was too stunned to dodge out of the way. Grunting as he was bowled to the floor, Khazard could barely see through the dust and tears in his eyes, so the muspah was nothing but a nightmarish silhouette above him, claws raised and poised to strike.

But then it struck; a light, brilliant and shining, like a concentrated crystalline burst of energy, right into the back of the muspah. The creature shrieked and howled in agony before crumbling to the ground, right next to Khazard. Panting, Khazard scrambled to his feet, wide eyes locking onto the being that saved him.

Seren stared straight back, her many eyes fixated upon the Mahjarrat. Then, she flew down from the cliff edge and next to Zaros, disdainfully regarding her brother as she demanded, “What are you doing here, Zaros?”

Zaros turned his head slightly towards Seren, the energy pulsing around him still locking him to the Marker. “I have been pulled here, same as you, sister.”

“I came because I felt Mah’s distress,” Seren contended, a bitter edge to her voice. “I assume you are here for your own selfish ends?”

“Not so, sister. You have felt the draw. Mah is draining us of our lifeforce. If something is not done, we will all wither,” he motioned with his head to the Mahjarrat. “And they will go first.”

“A Ritual, then?”

Shaking his head, Zaros replied, “It is not enough to sustain them. Not this time.”

When Seren turned back to the Mahjarrat, she saw another muspah gaining on Bilrach, zooming in from the rear while Bilrach was distracted with another opponent. Seren shot a blast of her energy at the muspah, connecting to the rocky protective shell of its back. She expected it to topple over instantaneously; the strike should have been fatal, but instead, it merely seemed to aggravate the creature further. Fortunately, Bilrach was aware of his predator now and managed to gain some distance. Shocked, Seren forced another blast of energy at the muspah, launching what she thought was an excessively overpowered strike at it.

Finally, the creature crumbled. 

Looking down at her hands, Seren couldn’t understand. She could exterminate hoards of muspah with ease if needed - why were these causing so much trouble? Deep down in her core, she had an inkling, and she sensed that Zaros knew too.

Wahisietel was just as terrified as he was baffled. The musaph had never moved like that before, and they had never penetrated the Ritual Site. Something was wrong... 

“We have to perform the Ritual,” Akthanakos wearily shot down another muspah, his life essence being sucked out of him with every attempt to defend himself. “It is the only way to banish these apparitions!”

“But we can't perform the Ritual with these things clawing at us!” Enakhra shouted back, panting heavily as she fought off another attack.

Hazeel was shaking his head, his eyes glazing over with the exertion. “I don't understand. Why are these muspah so different?”

“As Mah grows weaker, she grows more desperate,” Zaros explained, acutely aware of how vulnerable he was, even with Azzanadra’s protection. He turned to Seren. “These nightmares will only continue to grow stronger with each passing minute. Sister, we must do something to rid the Ritual Site of Mah’s nightmares before they overwhelm us.”

“What would you have me do, Zaros?” Seren snapped, feeling the anguish of the gathered Mahjarrat infect her very core. “I cannot fight her manifestations by myself while you perform the Ritual!”

“And you will not be able to. As long as Mah draws breath, we will succumb. If not to her manifestations, then to her drain on our lifeforce.”

Zaros’ insinuations slithered their way into Seren’s mind. Her eyes widened. “No!”

“Do you think this is what Mah wants?” Zaros’ sharp tone had a pleading edge to it. “If she was conscious of the consequences of her actions, do you think she would accede to them?”

Seren was incredulous. Her seething tone quivered, “I will not let you kill our own mother!”

“Then you must do it,” Zaros solemnly but firmly declared, emphasising, “They will  _ all perish _ , sister...”

Seren’s hollow eyes held Zaros’ for a long while before wandering numbly over to the gathered Mahjarrat. They were fighting for their lives, for the survival of their race, just like they were the first time she came to them on Freneskae.

Gulping, Seren let the guilt wash over her once more. If her greatest mistake was the curse of tethering she inflicted upon the elves, then her relationship with the Mahjarrat was a close second.

Lowering her head, Seren said nothing as she flew up to Mah’s side.

The elder god was grumbling, groaning, her stone-assembled features creaking with every bitter movement. The nightmare pulsed though her, tearing through her psyche like daggers through flesh. So many times Seren had seen Mah in this treacherous state. Once Zaros departed Freneskae, Mah was devastated. She was barely lucid, and even when she was, she was unable to separate dreams from reality. Her screams would echo across the mountains, causing violent earthquakes as her pain intensified.

Creations spawned from her dreams - the Children of Mah, their race was known as, and tribes formed among them. The Mahjarrat were the only remaining tribe. Seren theorised Mah was trying to create another Zaros, to fill the void his absence had created. Instead, she created a race of lost, scared and weak creations, left to build a society out of the ashes of their harsh world. Seren came to them, and she taught them all she could to survive on Freneskae... but at a cost.

When Mah’s screams shook the world, Seren encouraged the Mahjarrat to perform a Ritual of Enervation - it would drain Mah of some of her power, settling her fury and allowing the Mahjarrat to breed. When Mah’s nightmares caused the creation of muspah, Seren encouraged the Mahjarrat to journey to the Ritual Marker and sacrifice one of their own to banish the creatures, returning to Mah some of that lost power.

Mah loved her creations. Seren knew that, as she saw countless parents love their children upon leaving Freneskae. But her love was overwhelming. Zaros felt smothered by Mah and left Freneskae, leaving Seren alone to care for her. Those were dark days, her moods travelling between deep depression and intense fury. Seren alone had to handle her. But nothing lasts forever, even for an elder god.

“I was powerless... nothing I did or could do would ever be enough…” Seren found herself whimpering, heavy eyes resting upon the deity.

Eventually, Seren had left Freneskae too, hoping to find something in the cosmos that could help Mah’s suffering. She had found so many wondrous things in her travels, including the heart of the universe itself - Gielinor, a perfect world.

But nothing to save her mother.

“I never wanted to abandon you, Mah.”

The sounds of battle below the clifftop echoed and reverberated around the world, alongside the low rumblings of an impending earthquake. Mah’s face contorted again, a pained shriek settling into a hollow scowl, lava dripping from her cracked features.

Tentatively, Seren approached Mah, holding out a hand to rest against her cheek. “I am so sorry, mother. I think I always knew in my heart that it would come to this. If I had only known sooner... I could have saved you so much pain. You deserved better. You gave us all your love, in your own way. So great and complex, forever doomed to be misunderstood. You will suffer no more, and your children will thrive. Forgive me…”

Seren’s hand started to glow a fearsome shade of icy white, tendrils of energy sprouting out and wrapping around Mah like vines.

It was over quick, hauntingly so. A creature as old as the universe, gone in a heartbeat.

Seren watched Mah’s head lull lifelessly to the side, excess lava dripping out of her mouth until it was nothing but a trickle.

“Curse you, Zaros…” Seren clenched her fists, her entire body shaking and quivering. Seren knew there was a web her brother had weaved, and it had led to this very moment. She couldn’t quite explain how, or why, but she  _ knew _ . She knew her brother like a mirror image of herself, and she would  _ never _ forgive him for this.

Due to their weakened state, the Mahjarrat were struggling with the onslaught of muspah. Overly powered muspah at that, ones that subverted a lot of what was known of the creatures. What’s worse was that one of the Mahjarrat’s most powerful numbers, Azzanadra, was occupied protecting Zaros.

Wahisietel didn’t know how long they could hold out, despite reassurances from Zaros that the muspah would disappear soon enough. He had a plan, and Wahisietel did not wish to question his deity. But as another muspah shrugged off an ice barrage, Wahisietel found himself wishing for the hastening of Zaros’ plan.

Then, suddenly, the muspah he was tangling with collapsed into a blurry haze of smoke and ash.

Breathlessly, Wahisietel let the spell he was preparing disintegrate in his palms. Shooting his head around, he saw that the rest of the muspah had met the same fate.

The rest of the Mahjarrat looked equally confused, alongside their relief. Azzanadra was the first one to speak up, beginning, “My lord, what has-”

Suddenly, the surrounding Mahjarrat were engulfed in a blinding white energy. It lifted them high into the air, weaving its way around their bodies and into their very core. The entire sky erupted into a wave of light that emanated from the Marker.

When the Mahjarrat were dropped to the floor, their skin had returned - no longer were they weak and skeletal. What’s more, Wahisietel felt a power surging through his veins like no other. No previous Ritual had made him feel this…  _ alive _ . This powerful, this invulnerable… like he was walking one step closer to godhood. Turning to look at Azzanadra, he saw traces of fear in the stoic Mahjarrat’s eyes. With this new power that has been bestowed upon them by Mah, Wahisietel felt like he was something more than a mere Mahjarrat. Azzanadra, being their tribe’s strongest, must have been feeling the weight of that burden tenfold.

“ZAROS!” A voice bellowed down to them, shrill yet commanding, cutting Wahisietel from his thoughts. Seren descended from the mountaintop, storming over to challenge Zaros. “You knew this would happen from the start. Your actions resulted in the death of our own mother. How could you?”

Zaros did not come close to matching the palpable emotion in Seren’s tone when he replied, “She is truly gone? Then we did her a kindness, Seren. Her entire existence was pain.”

“Her existence was  _ beautiful _ ,” Seren’s voice wavered, her entire body trembling. “She had the power to create life and she dared to do so, something you will  _ never _ achieve.”

“Perhaps not, but now I am one step closer.”

“I thought death would have taught you humility, but you are just as arrogant as before…”

“Wait…” Zamorak had just finished dusting off his robes while intently watching the back and forth between the two other deities. All the while, his brow kept furrowed, the cogs in his head starting to turn and pull him towards a dangerous realisation. “If Mah is dead, then why do I still feel that aura? That… pull.”

He turned towards Bilrach as if seeking confirmation. He received it in the form of a shallow, grave nod of his head. Ever so slowly, he turned his head back to Seren with a glare as fiery as the lava falls around them. “You… you  _ cunt! _ It’s been you all along, hasn’t it? Seren, goddess of the elves. You came to us posing as Mah all those years ago. You taught the fucking Rituals to us. You made us believe they were the fucking will of a  _ fucking Elder God! _ ”

Zamorak’s barely contained rage snapped the other Mahjarrat into silence; they could practically see the ferocious anger pour out of his skin and the venom drip from his tongue. It was a terrifying intensity that would not easily be forgotten.

“No- I... I was trying to help,” Seren held up her hands, a gentle motion. “I could not foresee what would become of your race. How could I?”

But Zamorak was having none of it. Sweeping a dramatic hand towards Seren, Zamorak announced, “Mahjarrat, this is Seren, your false Mah. Bilrach will confirm, SHE is the one who came to your ancestors and taught them to murder one another. SHE ALONE bears the responsibility for what our race has become!”

“Please!” Seren’s voice cracked. “I never meant to-”

“Millennia of anguish and suffering for our race is on HER hands!” Zamorak roared, practically shaking with fury.

At this, Zaros stepped in, “Leave her.”

An interruption not welcomed by Seren. “Do not defend me, Zaros,” she snapped. “You will never stand beside me again.”

Wahisietel was still having a hard time letting all of this sink in. “Surely it cannot be. Our greatest tradition was never anything but a facade?”

“Mmm, yes, it is true,” Bilrach solemnly confirmed. “I remember the visit, somewhere in my mind. Aeons ago, it was. You looked somehow different, Seren, but you are not Mah. You are a pretender.”

“It was all lies?” Hazeel clenched a fist so tight that his claws began to draw blood from his palm. “Our race has dwindled to such a paltry number for nothing…”

“It was not for nothing!” Seren desperately defended, heart in her throat. “If you had not performed the Rituals to give energy back to Mah she would have torn this planet apart. Your whole race would have been annihilated!”

There was a fury in Azzanadra’s narrow eyes that rivalled Zamorak’s own. “And sacrificing our own kin was the best you could think of? With all the power and wisdom you have been gifted… THAT WAS THE BEST YOU COULD DO?!”

“I was naive, yes. I have made many mistakes. I bear the guilt of my actions every waking moment,” Seren quivered, trembling under the weight of the Mahjarrat’s judgement.

“You may bear the guilt, but not the consequences,” Enakhra snarled. “We sacrificed our children for you. Our kin! Look what you have done to our glorious race! Look at what is left of us!”

“You taught us to kill one another. Made us rely on it. You led us to the very brink of extinction!” Wahisietel growled, eyes blazing with fire.  _ The sacrifices they had endured… all for nothing... _

Seren took an involuntary step backwards. Her face was a portrait of sorrow, of unbridled guilt and shame in the face of their anger. “Please, I am sorry… so, so sorry…”

“You do not get to be  _ sorry, _ ” Zamorak rounded back on Seren. “You are the cause of so much loss, so much motherfucking misery… you cursed our race and then you cursed the elves! You’re a monster!”

It was too much for Seren to bear; all the sadness and guilt she felt inside overflowed and manifested into a vicious, ear-splitting, ground-shaking scream. The surrounding Mahjarrat dropped to their knees, clutching desperately onto their ears in a weak attempt to block out the worst of the sound, crying out in anguish as they did so.

Even Zaros was affected, hunching over and trying to cast a small protection spell to lessen the impact of his sister’s scream. “Seren, stop, please!”

But Seren didn’t listen; the ground began to split apart, rocks from cliffs above started to crumble and crash down around them.

“Sister, you will destroy them all!” Zaros pleaded, thankfully loud enough to get through to Seren. The screaming stopped, as did the shaking ground, and the Mahjarrat began to make their way to their feet.

Seren stumbled backwards, looking down at her trembling hands. She couldn’t look up again, couldn’t look at the Mahjarrat she continued to hurt. “I... I cannot stay here any longer. But it is not over between us, Zaros. Not this easily. You will pay for what you have done here. Mah's death is on your hands, and while I still draw breath, I will stand against you.”

With that, she flew away.

Wahisietel was feeling numb, his life on Freneskae flashing before him. All the unnecessary deaths, all the pain he endured in Rituals… the whims of a naive god, nothing more. “How could she do this to us…”

“My sister did what she thought necessary,” Zaros explained, his monotonous voice betraying no allegiance or emotion. “You must understand, Seren has always been caring to a fault; blind to the fact she smothers the subjects of her affection. Her heart ached for Mah, watching her pour what little energy she held into the creation of new beings - the Dreams of Mah. To sustain Mah - to save her from death - Seren taught those creations to transfer their energy back to her in small doses. It was the only way for Frenesake to survive.”

“Pah! 'These creations',” Zamorak spat. “We were born the same way as you were, Zaros. Our lives did not matter less. Seren came to us, posing as Mah. She created the drain on our energy, made it necessary to either kill one another or die out. Think of the Mahserrat,” he looked towards Hazeel, a former Mahserrat himself. “They chose to deny the Rituals, and then they all perished. If it weren’t for Seren, that never would have fucking happened.”

“She was only doing what she believed was the right course of action,” Zaros repeated.

Zamorak bared his teeth. “Do not argue for her, Zaros. You have made an enemy of her now.”

“Then let us dwell on her no longer. There is something far more relevant. I have kept my word, Zamorak. When Sliske holds his endgame, you will be my Legatus Maximus once more.”

“Do not taunt me, Empty Lord. I owe you no fealty.”

“We shall see.”

Ignoring the remark, Zamorak turned back to the Mahjarrat, lifted his chin and declared, “You are free now, Mahjarrat. Time is on your side - there is no Ritual looming ahead, no pressure to avoid sacrifice. Make the most of your immortality.”

“Just remember, it was  _ I _ who gave you this freedom,” Zaros pointed out, stepping forward to address the crowd. “Under my guidance you have all shattered your limitations. It is… inspiring. But remember, Zamorak, I made good on my promise. For now, you belong to me.”

“But you should also remember, I owe you a  _ single _ action,” Zamorak countered. “Choose it wisely.

“Believe me, I will. But for now, there are other matters that require my attention. I will see you at the eclipse.”

With those words, Zaros took to the skies and flew away, leaving the Mahjarrat alone once more.

In the silence, Akthanakos was the first to speak. “Just because our gods have a truce, doesn’t mean I’m willing to bury the hatchet with all of you,” he glared at Enakhra. “I do not put my trust in snakes.”

Enakhra scoffed. “Don’t get caught up in the moment. I have no need for Zarosians in my life.”

Azzanadra declared, “You brought down the Empire, Zamorak. I will never forgive you. But… Zaros needs you. I will not jeopardize my lord’s plan.”

“Unless our gods are at war, we have no reason to fight,” Wahisietel argued, stepping between the heated glares of Azzanadra and Zamorak. He looked Zamorak in the eye, feeling bile form in his throat as he bitterly remembered that fateful day in the Throne Room.

But he swallowed it down.

“Indeed,” Zamorak replied, a cruel smile dancing on his lips as he saw the flickers of fury dance across Wahisietel’s features. But for once, he decided to be above baiting, above taunting. This day was too important, after all. “After Sliske’s game, all bets are off. But for now, let’s keep things civil.”

Khazard, who had remained silent throughout all of this, finally raised his voice, a simple question on his mind, “F-Father… why wait until now to tell me?”

Hearing his voice made Zamorak soften slightly. He turned away from the anger of the Zarosians and around to his son. Shrugging, he replied, “I thought he was going to kill us all. Figured it was as good a time as any. You and I should talk, Khazard, and we should all leave this wretched place once and for all.”


	5. Arise Hero

Jahaan’s first stop inside Menaphos was a trip to the Merchant’s bank, hoping he had enough coins stored away to afford the deposit on a room. Since leaving the Imperial Guard, a fair chunk of his money seemed to disappear all too quickly, and he couldn’t even remember where it went. Still, there seemed to be enough left over for a room in the Worker District, if he wasn’t picky about location or square footage. Realising that he no longer needed the shieldbow that he’d banked months ago, Jahaan decided to sell it once he got himself settled, alongside the arrows that accompanied it.

However, it turned out that Jahaan had vastly overestimated what he could afford. He knew he’d end up somewhere in the Worker District, but a tiny room in a shared house with eight other renters was something else entirely. It was a small cupboard of a room with a shabby bed frame, a badly knocked together bedside table and a rug as old as Jahaan was. There was just enough room to store his armour in a heap in the free corner, once he decided to get it out of the bank, but not enough room to maneuver beyond getting from the bed to the door. There was also no shared kitchen - no kitchen at all. Just a communal cooking pit outside.

_ \--- It’s your fault he’s dead --- _

Still, Jahaan didn’t plan to spend much time locked up in his miniature abode. While rest and recuperation were high on his list of priorities, Jahaan still needed to make money to pay rent, and he still needed to eat. No subsidies for the broken warriors. But fishing was something that Jahaan enjoyed, that he could make money from, and it was hardly anything Gaw’kara could get angry at him about. He fished enough to eat and then sold the rest to the local tavern for a fraction of what they were worth. Due to the supply coming in from the Ports District, it was the only way to get money for them. It was enough to keep up the rent for the little room he was staying in, at least. Once Jahaan’s ribs healed enough and he regained some mobility, he took up a low-paying job working in the clay mines in the Worker’s District. With the heavy sun relentlessly beating down on him every day, Jahaan reckoned he must have lost a stone’s worth of weight in sweat alone. But it helped to recover some core strength in his once-broken bones.

Jahaan lived frugally, saving every extra penny of his salary once rent had been paid, and catching his own dinner in the stream near the mines. What was he saving up for? Runes. Lots and lots of runes.

_ \--- Did you really think there wouldn’t be consequences? --- _

When he wasn’t at work, Jahaan was training, focusing on recovering his dual-wielded swordsmanship form. That, or practising the Ancient Magicks with whatever runes he could afford. Runes required for those spells were expensive and hard to come by, so he had to make every second of training count, as they ran out before long. While he made a fair chunk of change from the shieldbow and arrows he sold, Jahaan decided that money wasn’t for training purposes. Instead, he’d use that money to buy some of the runes he’d take into Sliske’s endgame.

Keeping busy - always working, always training… it was how Jahaan kept himself sane. Gods knew it was a struggle, especially in the beginning. Once the numbness wore off and he realised that he had to try and live his life now, a life where his best friend had been ripped from him…

...There were nights when Jahaan found himself quite content with the idea of drinking himself to death.

But he refused to give into the darkness inside his mind. He let himself cave once, when Cyrius was killed. That descent led him to the Imperial Guard, after a long and painful fall. But now? Now Jahaan knew he didn’t have the luxury of breaking down. Not while Sliske still drew breath.

One of the first things he bought upon renting his room was a small chalk set. There, on one of his walls, he marked out a tally. Rows upon rows of tally marks, the exact amount of days until the eclipse that would signal the end to Sliske’s game. As the days passed, he crossed out the tallies, charting the time until the final confrontation.

_ \--- What’s your soul even worth to you? --- _

Though he rarely left the vicinity of the stream, the mines and his home, one day Jahaan did take a stroll down to the Ports District, and out into the crowded and cramped neighbourhood he grew up in. It took Jahaan a lot of time to reorient himself as the area had been greatly developed since he left, but eventually he found the street he grew up on and, finally, his old house.

Jahaan didn’t know what to expect, but if he really thought about it, this was it. The small abode had been repainted a brilliant white with the roof retiled. A nice allotment in the front garden. A football in the yard. As he walked past, he saw children in the dining room, and the silhouette of a woman in the background.

A new, happy family now lived in his old home. If his uncle still lived in Menaphos was questionable, but Jahaan had no intention of tracking him down, though he hoped the man was still around somewhere. He should only be in his sixties, after all. No doubt if he went down to the docks or his uncle’s favourite tavern he could find him there without much digging.

But that wasn’t why he was back in Menaphos, so he let the thought slip from his mind.

He had no time for family reunions. He had work to do.

Namely, to continue his training.

_ \--- It might not have been so bad, being a wight. Eternal life… --- _

The Ancient Magicks were vital in the fight against Sliske. It was the only way to attempt to level the playing field. There was no point in learning shadow magick - Sliske was a master and nothing Jahaan could do would ever come close to his ability. It would be like trying to stop a landslide with a picket fence.

Blood magick interested him the most, namely because of some of the crueler spells the book hinted at. Theoretically, one could control the blood inside of another person, or at least blood that came from an open wound. Pulling the blood out slowly could feel like you’re ripping someone apart from the inside out.

Jahaan quite liked the idea of that one. In fact, a lot of nights Jahaan sent himself to sleep by imagining every little injury he wanted to inflict upon Sliske.

Jahaan never thought of himself as a cruel person - until now, that is.

_ \--- He’ll never forgive you now --- _

With that in mind, Jahaan spent most of his time practising blood magick spells. Of course, they had common barrage and blast variants too. Smoke was something he’d learned a few spells of already, so he improved his knowledge of that in case the opportunity arose. When it came to ice magick, Jahaan didn’t spend much time in that department. He didn’t want to become Jack of all trades, master of none. No, a collection of decent, hard-hitting spells to defend himself against Sliske was what he needed.

That, and a miracle or two.

When Wahisietel made it back to his humble abode in Nardah, he took a moment to embrace the calm, the quiet… while he’d only been on Freneskae a few hours, it was enough time to make him desperately miss the serenity of Gielinor. But so much had happened, too much to wrap his head around right now. He needed to relax, and decided the best way to do that was to pull out the bottle of whiskey he’d been saving in the bottom of his desk drawer. What he’d been saving it for was a bit of a mystery, but the continued survival of his race and the reassurance of immortality seemed to be fitting enough. It was a fine bottle too, a gift he received from Azzanadra back in the days of the Empire. To say it had aged was an understatement. Whiskey was always a weakness for Wahisietel. He rarely indulged in fancy foods, but a good drink was worth the hassle of getting it out of his system later.

Pouring it into his favourite tumbler, Wahisietel lit up a pipe and reclined into his armchair, allowing the stresses of the day to free themselves from his mind...

...Until he felt it.

Exhaling sharply, Wahisietel downed the first measure in one go and placed his pipe on the table, walking up to the door to wait for the inevitable knock. He shifted into his human form, lest his human neighbours see him undisguised.

After one little tap on the door, Wahisietel swung it open, glaring at the uninvited guest. “Sliske.”

Sliske smiled back at him, cloaked in a human’s form, jet-black hair and a formal-looking shirt. “Brother!” he cheered. “It’s been too long, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not long enough,” Wahisietel gruffly nodded his head, indicating for Sliske to come inside. As soon as he did, Wahisietel shut and locked the door, transforming back into his Mahjarrat form. Sliske wasted no time in doing the same, stretching out the kinks in his neck. “You’re looking rather… well,” Sliske began, an insinuation in his tone. “A good day then?”

“No need to play coy, Sliske,” Wahisietel poured himself another drink. “Why are you here?”

“So hostile!” Sliske teased, draping himself over the couch as he did so. “I came for the gossip, naturally. So, who bit the dust this time?”

A suspicion confirmed. “So you DID feel the pull.”

“I did, but I felt it would be best to not RSVP to that particular get-together,” Sliske remarked, “I hardly believe I would have been Mr Popularity.”

Wahisietel had assumed as much. “A wise move, but what I want to know is, why didn't you degrade with the rest of us?”

“I could answer that,” Sliske replied with a raise of his eyebrows. “But I feel you have a theory of your own, brother.”

Wahisietel nodded, curtly. “The Stone is holding you together.”

“Holding me together sounds so desperate,” Sliske waved a hand theatrically. “I feel we have a symbiotic relationship. After all, I'm finally getting some good use out of the thing.”

Sitting up, Sliske propped his chin on his hands and grinned wryly. “So, who should I cross off my Wintumber card list this year, hm?”

“Mah.”

At this, Sliske’s interest was piqued. So Wahisietel relented and relayed the incredibly cut down version of events. He was just too exhausted to give a play-by-play of what happened on Freneskae, and frankly, his half-brother’s joviality was grating on him more than usual. But more than that, Wahisietel was worried. Not that he’d let Sliske know, but it was his antics that were causing Wahisietel to lose sleep at night. Now that he’d missed a Ritual - the final Ritual, no less - Wahisietel was sure that such an action would not go without consequences.

After the tale was finished, Sliske leaned back on the couch, stroking his chin in contemplation. “Well, I certainly missed a shindig, didn’t I?

Sliske might have been content embracing his casual and suave facade, but Wahisietel had had enough. “What is your endgame here, Sliske? You betray Zaros, have every major deity in Gielinor after your blood, and you made an enemy of the World Guardian you claim to-” he shook his head, his own frustrations catching up to him. “I just cannot see the plan in all this.”

Sliske chuckled. “I do so hate parting with information. Knowledge is power, after all.”

“Sliske, I’m serious,” his tone had an edge of pleading about it. “You must be able to see that you are in over your head. I can help you. We can get through this together, like we always have.”

Even Sliske’s jovial mask softened slightly. “Dear brother, you needn’t worry about me. It’s all part of the plan, after all.”

“Plans, plans…” Wahisietel muttered, clenching his teeth. “And what would happen if all your plans fell apart and you were finally cornered?”

“All my plans?” a familiar sparkle twinkled in Sliske’s eyes. “Why brother, it is as if you do not know me at all. There is  _ always _ another plan.”

After crossing out another tally on his wall chart, Jahaan knew it was nearly time. The eclipse was only five days away now. Five days until either he died, or Sliske did.

Runes had been collected in their hundreds, swords had been sharpened and armour had been buffed. Jahaan’s ribs were as close to fully healed as he could get. The same went for the rest of his injuries, though his nose hadn’t mended quite as nicely as he had hoped. Still, that was cosmetic only - nothing to worry about.

Jahaan was ready. Ready for the fight of his life, ready for his death. Whatever Sliske’s endgame would throw at him, he could handle, or so he kept telling himself. He needed to stay alive long enough to watch Sliske suffer. He needed to avenge Ozan’s fate. He needed to stop the voices in his head…

So after taking one last look at the chalk marks on his wall, Jahaan began to dress himself in his armour, equipping his swords to his hip and attaching the rune pouch to his belt. Gathering up his rucksack, Jahaan left a few extra coins on the mattress and embarked into the midday sun of Menaphos, perhaps for the last time.

**Author's Note:**

> As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.


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